The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  She thought suddenly how solid he looked, with his broad shoulders, silver-buttoned coat, and stocky calves clad in white stockings. How different he was from the languid, elegant, dangerous Pitt. As he turned in she said, “Before you announce my arrival, Mr. Williams, there is something else I should like to ask.”

  “Very well. What is it?”

  Agnes scrutinized a row of snuffboxes in the window, as she tried to calm her conflicting feelings. Williams seemed to be an honest, kindly fellow—but so had her husband when she’d first set eyes on him. She steadied herself and met his gaze. “’Twas nothing of significance,” she said casually. “Only today, when I called on Mr. Pitt, he mentioned the subject of marking and duty. Bearing in mind our conversation on that subject last night, can you hazard why?”

  William drew his brows together. “Well, as I said, the duty must be paid according to the weight. The rate is sixpence an ounce. On a wine cooler weighing twelve hundred ounces, that would be a considerable sum—thirty pounds. Perhaps Pitt was curious to know whether Theodore had already paid the duty so he could calculate what to ask for its return. Duty would add to the total loss if the wine cooler were not recovered.”

  “Was it you or Riley who made the wine cooler?” asked Agnes suddenly.

  “Mostly it was me, though he helped with some of the first castings.”

  “And you took it to assay?”

  “No. Riley usually goes. He says he likes the change, and I’ve no inclination to stand in line for an hour if I don’t have to.”

  “Then perhaps Rose Francis’s business with Riley had something to do with duty dodging; it might explain her visits to him and why he is reluctant to speak of them. And perhaps it also explains the gold in her possession.”

  “What gold?”

  “One of the maids recalled seeing twenty sovereigns in a purse hidden under her mattress.”

  This did not seem to surprise him in the least. “Come, come,” he said, shaking his head and folding his arms across his chest. “It is surely far-fetched to believe a kitchen maid would be caught up in a matter such as this. If you do not understand the marking system, why should she?”

  “Riley could have taught her; if he somehow enticed her to bring him articles from the Blanchards’ house for the marks to be removed and placed on more valuable items, that would explain their discussions. Why else would she have called on him?”

  “Hmm,” said Thomas Williams uneasily. “It is possible, I suppose. But I confess I do not give it much credence. Blanchards’ sells few items more sizable than a salver. The wine cooler is an exception. Besides, even if they did operate such a scheme, how would they profit from it? All the objects made and sold here are listed in the accounts, which Mr. Theodore Blanchard keeps.”

  “Then perhaps he was involved too.” Agnes walked away from the window and gazed at an arrangement of silver candlesticks on a mantel shelf. Even to her, the theory seemed far-fetched. And there was no proof, apart from the visits to Riley and a single salver. Surely, she thought, Rose could not have been embroiled in such an intrigue.

  Footsteps sounded on the landing upstairs, a stiff cough wafted down, and Theodore’s voice called out, “Mrs. Meadowes? Is that you I hear? What are you doing down there? Williams, bring her to the upstairs showroom forthwith.”

  THEODORE SLUMPED in a leather armchair by the fire. The same place, thought Agnes, where Noah Prout had been sitting two days earlier when Harry Drake had slit his throat. “Well,” he said, waving her in impatiently the minute the door closed behind her. “Come, come, Mrs. Meadowes. Sit down. Tell me, what did Pitt have to say for himself?”

  Agnes perched on the edge of a seat. “He gave the impression he was confident of recovering the wine cooler,” she said cautiously. “He expects to have news within the next few days. Most significantly, however, he knew without my telling him that the wine cooler was intended for Sir Bartholomew Grey.”

  “Did he, by Jove? So our suspicions were correct, there is a traitor here.”

  Agnes nodded. “A traitor is here or was here. Mrs. Blanchard suggested Rose Francis’s disappearance might have some bearing on the theft, and requested that I should try to find her. I wondered whether tomorrow morning would be an opportune moment to—”

  “No, no, no, Mrs. Meadowes,” broke in Theodore, thumping his fist on the armrest and shaking his head so violently that his chins wobbled like blancmange. “Let us get one thing clear. I do not wish you to waste time or deliberately divert your attention from what is paramount: namely acting as an intermediary with Mr. Pitt. Moreover, my wife was most concerned that Mrs. Tooley should not be unnecessarily upset. She says I should make only sparing use of your services. Therefore, let us wait to see whether Pitt recovers the wine cooler, then if the traitor is in the vicinity and chasing after him is necessary, Justice Cordingly will decide how best to do it.”

  “But if Rose Francis was involved in the robbery, she might lead us to the wine cooler without you having to pay to recover it, and Pitt would not profit from his crime,” she protested.

  Theodore snorted. “Have I not told you clear enough, Mrs. Meadowes? Whether or not the girl was involved is irrelevant. She is gone. She cannot help us. Looking for her will waste time and cause disruption in the household. More importantly, if word reached Pitt he might be inclined to melt down the wine cooler and sell the silver for bullion. I cannot afford to take the risk. If you wish to keep your post you would be wise to remember it.”

  Agnes turned her head sharply, as if slapped on the cheek. Out the window, a gray fog had descended that half obscured the façades opposite. Elsie’s suggestion that the wine cooler might have been melted down rang in her head.

  Theodore cleared his throat. “Did Pitt pass any other remark of interest?” he asked.

  “He wondered if the wine cooler was marked and the duty paid.”

  Theodore’s eyes bulged. “Duty? He mentioned duty? I can scarce credit it! And what did you say?”

  “That I assumed it was.”

  Was Theodore aghast at the implication that such a nefarious practice as duty dodging might have been perpetrated on his premises out of concern for his reputation? Or was he worried that his own involvement in such a scheme might be exposed? “What do you suppose he meant, sir?” Agnes probed warily, curiosity overcoming her trepidation.

  “Meant? How in heaven’s name should I comprehend the workings of a mind such as Pitt’s? Naturally the wine cooler had been properly marked. But that is by the by. So long as he recovers it, that’s all that need concern any of us. You included, Mrs. Meadowes.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  DURING THE MORNING Mrs. Tooley had stood in for Agnes as she had stood in for Mrs. Tooley on so many previous occasions when contagions had struck. A simple dinner had been prepared. The first course comprised soup à la reine, chicken stew with celery, fried tripe, and boiled cauliflower; the second course, a wholesome ragout of pig ears, macaroni pie, roast mutton, mushrooms, and cabbage in butter sauce; for dessert there would be jam tartlets and apple pie. Mrs. Tooley had enlisted the help of both Doris and Nancy and they had made a good start. The desserts were prepared, the stew set to simmer, the mutton already darkening on the spit.

  With an hour left to complete the rest, Agnes rose to the challenge, which she felt better equipped to handle than consorting with thief takers and street rogues. Turning first to the soup, she picked up a pot containing lean beef and a knuckle of veal, onions, carrots, celery, parsnips, leeks, and a little thyme, which had been simmering for most of the morning. She strained it through a muslin cloth, then thickened it with bread crumbs soaked in boiled cream, half a pound of ground almonds, and the yolks of six hard eggs. She licked her little finger thoughtfully and adjusted the seasoning, while issuing a barrage of further instructions to Doris. “Water on for the vegetables, then slice up the ears in strips; then baste the joint—careful, mind—so the fat don’t catch on the fire.”

  Cheeks gl
owing from steam and heat, Agnes wiped a damp hand across her brow, then began on the gravy, adding a pinch of mace and a glassful of claret as the French chef had taught her. She poured the gravy over the sliced ears. “Into the hot cupboard with this, Doris. And then get me the cabbage and cauliflower, please.” She basted the mutton with a long-handled spoon, and fried the tripe in a deep pan of lard until it was brown and crisp. She set a pan of mushrooms alongside, and tossed the cabbage leaves in a pan of boiling water and the cauliflower in another. “More cream, Doris. Are the plates warmed?” she called, shaking the mushrooms while tasting the macaroni. “Vegetables need draining. Where are John and Philip?” Without waiting for a reply, she garnished the tripe with parsley and poured the soup into a large tureen. “It’s nearly time, Doris.”

  As if he had heard her, Philip burst in through the door. He had just finished setting the table under the eagle eye of Mr. Matthews, who had chastised him roundly for his carelessness in not keeping the dessert spoons at perfect right angles to the knives and exactly one inch distant from the forks. Philip threw himself into a chair, sighing exaggeratedly, his large muscled legs apart.

  “At last, Philip! Sharpen the carving knife, if you please, so Mr. Matthews can carve the mutton,” said Agnes, irked by his lack of decorum. “Dear God, the stew must be ready by now. Take it off the heat please, Doris.”

  Her dress was now sodden with steam, and yet in the midst of all this activity, she found an unlikely sort of peace. The demands of dinner brought solace of a kind. For the time being she could not fret—she had to get on.

  COMPARED WITH the clutter of Mrs. Tooley’s parlor, the butler’s pantry was an altogether more spartan, less homely place. There were no colorful samplers or seascapes, no saucers or teacups, or ornaments on the mantelpiece, apart from a single uncolored engraving of George II in his coronation robes. There was a silver cupboard, which was always kept locked; a table upon which Theodore’s and Nicholas’s clothes and the menservants’ liveries were pressed; a lead-lined sink where the footmen washed the glasses; a wooden horse, where sundry articles were dried; and three wooden chairs.

  But Mr. Matthews’s surroundings were not devoid of decoration. Unrolled and laid out on the table beside him, weighted down with two dessert knives and a lump of beeswax, was a gaudily colored print of the king displayed half unclad, clutching a string of German sausages and engaged in the clumsy seduction of Lady Yarmouth.

  Mrs. Blanchard had instructed him to make a tally of the silver to ensure nothing was missing. He saw no reason not to lighten the task with occasional glances at something a little more entertaining. He subscribed to a nearby print shop which provided a loan of these salacious images for a modest tuppence a week. Mr. Matthews had counted the knives (sixty-eight) and forks (fifty-four) without incident. He had just reached the twenty-second spoon when John barged in wanting candles to replenish the sconces in the hallway. The sudden gust of wind that came with him blew the print onto the floor. Mr. Matthews started guiltily, recovered the print, and had begun to roll it up before he realized it was only John. “You!” he exclaimed. “See what you made me do!”

  But once the door was firmly closed behind him, he said in a more convivial manner, “Take a look at this, dear boy, and tell me if you ever set eyes on anything half so droll before.”

  The two of them shared guffaws and exclamations at the parted thighs, the unbuttoned breeches, the dog running off with the king’s garter. The butler sneezed and wiped his nose, shaking his venerable head. The distraction had caused him to forget his count of the spoons. He replaced them hurriedly in their box, locked it, and returned it to the silver cabinet. He poured a bottle of port through a silver funnel into a cut-glass decanter, resolved to allay Mrs. Blanchard’s fears and tell her the silver was untouched. She would be none the wiser.

  Just then the curvaceous figure of Agnes Meadowes appeared on his threshold. She was surprised to find the atmosphere so jovial. The butler’s face fell; he slapped the print upside down on the table.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she ventured with an apologetic smile, “may I have a word alone?”

  “I am engaged, as you can see.”

  “It is a matter Mrs. Blanchard has asked me to discuss with you,” said Agnes, not entirely truthfully.

  Mr. Matthews heaved a sigh and turned to John. “Best be off with those candles then, eh.” John grabbed a handful from the box and left.

  “Well, Mrs. Meadowes, what can I do for you?”

  “Mrs. Blanchard believes Rose might have had some involvement with the murder and robbery. She has asked me to discover what I can of her whereabouts.”

  Mr. Matthews hesitated, sucking in his haggard cheeks. “And you suppose I know the answer to that, do you?”

  “Of course not, only you may unwittingly know something that will shed light on it.”

  Mr. Matthews tutted with disapproval and returned to his decanting. “Well, I grant you it would provide a reason for her running off. But it seems implausible to me. A woman could not have carried off something so heavy.”

  “She might have called upon an assistant.”

  For a minute or two he said nothing, and Agnes noticed how deftly his long, slender fingers cradled the bottle and delicately supported the funnel. Plainly, she thought, he has yet to sample the contents, or his hand would not be so steady. When the last sediment-free drop was safely poured, he turned to her. “Whom have you in mind?”

  “Mr. Riley—the journeyman next door.”

  Mr. Matthews looked unconvinced. “I doubt Rose had anything to do with the robbery. There is a far simpler reason for her departure, in my opinion.”

  “What, then?”

  “Guilt,” said the butler flatly. “Have you forgotten that she stole the pistol from Mr. Blanchard’s room?”

  “I have not forgotten its loss. But can we be certain it was she who took it? And if so, what was her motive for the theft?”

  “I told you, I saw her upstairs on Monday morning while you were out at market. She had a furtive manner; she must have taken it then.”

  “You implied before that her sorties upstairs were because she engaged in intimacies with Nicholas Blanchard.”

  “I was not aware then that the gun was missing,” replied Mr. Matthews smoothly. “Besides, one misdemeanor does not preclude the other.”

  No, thought Agnes, but it stretches credibility, and Philip—an undoubted expert in such matters—had said there was nothing between the pair. “Perhaps not.” She nodded. “Although I would hazard Rose did not run away because she took the pistol. Rather the reverse—she took the pistol because she was running away.”

  “Come, come, Mrs. Meadowes, surely you are splitting hairs. Whatever way you turn it, the girl was guilty as sin.”

  Agnes bit her lip, an obstinate gleam in her eyes. “Apart from Monday, did you see Rose upstairs on other occasions?”

  “No, but Nancy did—and gave proof of it, too.”

  Agnes presumed he was referring to the letter. “Might not something quite innocent have taken her upstairs? Perhaps she wanted to speak to the master or mistress on some matter.”

  “What concerns might a kitchen maid have had that she could not discuss with me or Mrs. Tooley—or you even?”

  Heaven knows, thought Agnes. But suppose Rose had had a personal matter that bothered her? Would she have discussed it with an ailing spinster housekeeper, or an elderly butler, or an introverted cook who shut herself off and knew so little of the ways of love? Perhaps Rose had tried to seek out Mrs. Blanchard, as she herself had done, hoping that her mistress might view her predicament more sympathetically. That might explain why she had questioned Patsy about Mrs. Blanchard’s comings and goings—she did not want Patsy’s position, only a moment or two alone with her mistress.

  Mr. Matthews was pondering too. “Now I think on it, I recall that one time Nancy caught her upstairs, Rose was carrying away a small silver salver. It was the one from the hallway upon whi
ch visiting cards are presented. She wouldn’t have done that if she was so innocent, would she?”

  “When was this?”

  “A week or so ago.”

  “Did you confront her?”

  “Naturally. She said she was not taking it away but putting it back. Riley had repaired it and had given it to her to return. She said that Nancy was a liar and was only trying to get her into trouble because Philip preferred her. And I need not think she was sweet on Philip, for she wasn’t; they were friends and no more than that. The impudence of her manner, I’m sorry to say, was not unusual. When I checked the story with Riley, he backed her up. And that made me suspect there was something between them. I contemplated telling her there and then that there was no place for such insolence, but Mrs. Tooley begged me not to, saying you and she would never manage without her.”

  How likely was it that Nancy had really found the letter in the drawing room, and seen Rose with the salver, and discovered the cache of money under her mattress? The menservants came and went upstairs, yet had seen nothing. Doris, who shared a bedroom with Nancy and Rose, had not seen the purse. Plainly Rose was capable of untruths—she had lied brazenly over her friendship with Philip. But was Nancy lying too, in the hope of discrediting Rose, whom she hated, in the eyes of Mrs. Tooley? She probed Mr. Matthews further. “Was it the same salver that was left out on the dresser last night?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Matthews. “Philip is prone to almost as many lapses as your Rose. He brought it down yesterday to polish and carelessly forgot to put it back. I have already reprimanded him most sternly.” He paused. “It was a pity you did not take a similarly strong line with Rose.”

  “I did not need to,” said Agnes. “She went anyway.” Then, embarrassed by her boldness, she curtsied hurriedly and returned to her kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  WHEN THE TIDE WAS LOW , one could often find things of value a few yards out from the steps at Three Cranes Wharf. A bucket of coal, a handful of nails (copper ones were best), a piece of rag, a foot of rope, or a few bones washed down from the abattoir—such riches awaited anyone willing to scratch about the rubbish-strewn mudflats of the River Thames. The most fruitful place was the most precarious: between the moorings, beyond the shoals, where the retreating tide etched small channels that intersected like the frayed fibers of old rope. Those who ventured here trod with care, for there were quicksands and channels that could pull a person down and drown him before he had time to call out. One day it might be safe to scrabble in a certain spot; the next, the river’s course would shift with the wind and tide. This was where Elsie Drake had come.